


Stagnating

by ToxicPineapple



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: (Only the aftermath of one though), Angst, Baking, Developing Relationship, Fellas is it gay to bake cookies with ur bro in the middle of the night, Fluff, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Melancholy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Killing School Life (Dangan Ronpa), virtual reality au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicPineapple/pseuds/ToxicPineapple
Summary: It’s hard to breathe like this. He could crack a window but then he’d just be breathing exhaust. The heavy reminders of people’s sins. Rantaro used to love camping. He can still remember how to make a tent, how to best store away his food in the bear canisters to keep himself safe. There were some forest trails that he went on so often, he knows all the best creeks and clearings, shortcuts through the underbrush and the places to stop so that he could sleep underneath the stars. Are those memories… based in reality? If Rantaro goes to Puerto Princesa, will he find that same steep slope where he realised that Kikuko wasn’t trailing behind him anymore? Or is it all… fake, just like Kikuko?---Rantaro wakes up from a nightmare and heads to the kitchen to clear his head.
Relationships: Amami Rantaro/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	Stagnating

It is an egregious waste of water to turn the bathroom faucet all the way up on hot and rest his chin on the wet, soapy counter, watching the water run so fast that it turns white before it disappears down the drain in a clear puddle of liquid.

In fact, it’s something of a disgrace; an abhorrent, first-world use of the resources that he’s being provided with. Rantaro can remember with vivid, picture-clear accuracy the first trip he took to Uganda. He remembers the metallic taste of the filthy brown water they walked for miles and miles down the dry, cracked roads to collect, and thinks that he shouldn’t be pouring all this clean, fresh-tasting water down the drain. Because some people aren’t as lucky to have the same privilege as he does. Running water is a privilege.

Well… he  _ thought  _ he remembered going to Uganda. He can still remember the way the wind tasted there, and the melodies of the songs his host family sang. But those memories are nothing more than a fabrication, as the Rantaro Amami who applied to be in Danganronpa likely never left Japan once in his life. He stayed in Tokyo with his family-- who Rantaro doesn’t remember-- and did whatever it is that people did in their apparently perfect, peaceful society-- which Rantaro doesn’t remember-- and all was well. Well and good.

(Or, as well as it could’ve been, if the Rantaro Amami who applied to be in Danganronpa had any real reason to sign up for a killing game. What a joke.)

And anyway, this water? It belongs to Team Danganronpa, just like his memories of Uganda and London and the Philippines. It’s a disgrace, a waste of resources, but he doesn’t have any respect (for anybody) for their resources, so fuck them. He hopes their water bill climbs up into the heavens.

Rantaro’s anger, he muses as he turns off the sink, is somewhat… misguided. They didn’t do anything to him that he didn’t agree to, once upon a time. He even agreed to go into it a second time… although that, that was coercion, a deal made with the devil, something that the Rantaro from his first killing game was harshly opposed to doing and yet saw no other options. He wanted to save his friends. (At least he can remember them, sort of. He knows they’re out there somewhere, all of them, and maybe they’ll even be alright with it if he finds them, someday.)

Regardless, he agreed. Signed away his rights on a damning piece of paper, which Team Danganronpa is now unquestionably using to fight off the team of lawyers assigned to take them down. Can what happened to him really be called an injustice if there was consent? None of it was even real, after all. Just in a virtual world. Nobody  _ actually  _ died. Nobody  _ actually  _ got hurt.

Of course, that isn’t… entirely the truth. Or even remotely the truth, in fact. Rantaro knows this, deep inside of him, because he’s said it so many times. To Korekiyo and to Kaede and to whoever has needed to hear it. It’s so easy just to  _ say--  _ words are just that, words, easy to say, and with the proper amount of vocal inflection in all the right places they can become truths, and that’s all that’s really needed to comfort other people. But Rantaro knows somewhere that what Team Danganronpa did (what Team Danganronpa has  _ been doing)  _ was wrong. Still is wrong. Would continue to be wrong, if Shuichi hadn’t shut them down. These facilities, their fancy hotel rooms and personal bathrooms and fancy tailored clothing and easy access to every part of the building, that’s damage control, that’s softening their image in the eyes of the public.

(Not that it matters. Shuichi made sure of that. Nobody’s ever gonna love Team Danganronpa ever again, ever. That’s pretty remarkable and Rantaro wishes he had the energy required to care more.)

That’s not why he’s being petty, though. He’s been through this whole routine before, this game of  _ was it wrong? Yes it was. No it wasn’t. I’m still alive. I didn’t agree the second time,  _ and it doesn’t matter. That’s not really what’s bothering him right now. It’s always bothering him, technically, but morality can take a backseat for the moment. He just wasted a fuck-ton of water, after all. Rantaro’s got no shits left about morality.

No, he’s being petty because he just woke up from a nightmare, experienced once again these awful amalgamations of the executions he saw in his first game and the death he lived in his second, and he doesn’t have the patience or the cojones required to cry over it. Nothing else works to calm him down. Maybe the Rantaro from before was angry and loud and violent, and that’s why he wants to tear his room and this entire building to pieces, kick the walls in and shatter the windows before curling up into a ball on the asphalt. He wants to punch everything so hard that his knuckles bleed, break his toes against the wood of his dresser, find  _ some  _ way to channel the nausea and resentment that have been building up since he opened his eyes.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Rantaro hates feeling this way. And it’s just so  _ easy  _ to succumb to dangerous desires like this when the sun is down and he’s all by himself. With everyone else, talking and moving and staring, he can just tune out all the ugliness of what happened and pretend to be that guy in the killing game. There’s a part of him that still feels it, the cool, relaxed facade that he put on, and the things that came naturally to him then still come naturally to him now, but alone, it-- it just feels wrong, plastic-y. Acting when the cameras aren’t rolling anymore He meets his own gaze in the mirror over the bathroom sink, trying to muster the energy to give one of those relaxed, non-committal smiles. It seems more like a grimace, or an unhinged clench of his jaw.

He turns off the bathroom light on his way out. It makes a dull clicking noise, and he’s left in the dark again. He used to love the dark. You have to rely on your other senses in the dark, so you notice more. Hear more. He remembers falling asleep deep in the Amazon Rainforest, the air wet with condensation but cool against his hot face, and the stars were spread overhead like a mural and the forest was alive with the sound of insects and creatures, moving around and living their lives.

(He’s never been to the Amazon. But the fondness for those memories, the warm gooiness in his chest, it lingers for a while, and he clings to it, hoping that it’ll remind him of who he is. Who he’s been trying to be. It’s not so easy to do that, though. To remember himself. Rantaro closes his eyes and grinds his teeth, steading himself on the wardrobe by the entrance to the bathroom. Soon that warmth will slip away and be replaced with cold resentment. That’s all he can feel, nowadays.)

The dark isn’t… scary. Rantaro’s not the kind of person to feel that kind of fear, the fear of the unknown. The unknown used to be exciting to him. Captivating. Even in that second killing him, down in the library with his Monopad in his hand, there was a thrum of… well, it wasn’t excitement but there was a thrill to it regardless. The sort of rush you get while sky-diving. He was aware of the risk. (Not aware enough, clearly; Rantaro’s head still throbs with the memory of Tsumugi’s carelessness.)

Still, it’s hard to breathe like this. He could crack a window but then he’d just be breathing exhaust. The heavy reminders of people’s sins. Rantaro used to love camping. He can still remember how to make a tent, how to best store away his food in the bear canisters to keep himself safe. There were some forest trails that he went on so often, he knows all the best creeks and clearings, shortcuts through the underbrush and the places to stop so that he could sleep underneath the stars. Are those memories… based in reality? If Rantaro goes to Puerto Princesa, will he find that same steep slope where he realised that Kikuko wasn’t trailing behind him anymore? Or is it all… fake, just like Kikuko?

Rantaro’s bedroom is so quiet, it’s oppressive. He feels around on the floor with his bare foot until he finds a shirt and lifts it up to his hand, not caring to smooth out the wrinkles as he pulls it over his head. In the simulation he always made sure to wear at least three shirts every morning before going out, but now he can only stand the feeling of one. Actually, he hates the way clothes feel in general, rubbing and chafing against his skin. That awful itchiness went away while he was in the simulation but now it’s back and it’s familiar too. One thing that the Rantaro Amami who signed up to be in Danganronpa kept from before. He can’t really blame himself for that, though.

The floor in the hallways is carpeted, a deep green with blue and yellow flecks scattered throughout. Rantaro likens the texture of the carpet to walking on curtains. It’s not all that pleasant on his bare feet. But he’s learning to like the cold, to crave it almost, so socks are out of the question. He never wore them in the simulation, anyway.

It takes him one hundred and thirty two steps to get to the kitchen, and after that he stops counting. Counting can be nice, sometimes. Usually it’s just overwhelming. He doesn’t really know why he’s here. Maybe to waste some water in the kitchen as well, spread around his destructive means of coping until it’s difficult to tell why he started in the first place. Tea never helps him after nightmares. Doesn’t erase the sounds of screaming from inside of his head. The burn of fire-hot shards of glass against his chest. (He doesn’t have those burn scars, anymore. They were a part of the simulation. He almost misses them. At least they’d be a reminder of the Rantaro Amami from inside that world.)

Eventually he just sits down on the tile floor. The refrigerator is cool against his back, and the hum of all the appliances is soothing. Preferable to the harsh, suffocating silence of his bedroom, at least. Rantaro closes his eyes and tilts his head back, swallowing hard. His friends from his first game, they’re all… alive. Alive and out there in the world, somewhere. Probably trying to hide from all of it. He can’t really blame them. He’d like to see them, though. Asahi and Juro and all the rest. He misses the sound of Takako’s laugh, the way Emiko’s voice petered off whenever she realised she was oversharing, Keiji’s scoffs and Mari’s grins. He actually  _ knew  _ them, all of them, and he knew them intimately. Nothing like the people who he’s sharing this building with now. He wasn’t really a part of their game. They have a bond that he could never hope to tread upon.

(He’d like… to find his friends. But the Rantaro Amami whose memories he was given, he couldn’t find even one of his sisters. So who’s to say that he could find Kaoru and Hare and Umi? If they don’t want to be found, then… then there’s not much he can do about that. Tsumugi should understand but it’s impossible to talk to her about things like this, she’s so distant and spacey nowadays, and he can’t  _ blame  _ her but he still feels just a bit left in the dark. All by himself and with nowhere to turn. God, he misses them.)

At the sound of footsteps, Rantaro cracks his eyes open, watching the kitchen door swing open as somebody steps in. He catches a glimpse of navy blue (with roots of black) and relaxes his shoulders. Shuichi is fine. During waking hours he’s always… surrounded by people, and that’s a lot, but he’s always been more of the quiet type. Rantaro notes as Shuichi walks over to one of the cupboards, pulling out a mug, that he’s not bare-footed too.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, since Shuichi hasn’t noticed him yet but it’s only a matter of time. The former detective jolts, his fingers curling instinctively around the mug, and turns around. His hair is a bit messy but nothing like someone who’s spent the night tossing and turning. That would be Rantaro’s, actually. And Shuichi’s eyes, open and honest as they are, are only as ringed with purple as they always are. They’re an exquisite shade of grey in the yellowed kitchen lights, however.

Shuichi’s lips pull in a small smile. “It isn’t that. I was just hungry,” he places the mug on the counter, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. They’re loose on him, and though Shuichi’s always been thin Rantaro thinks that he might be losing some weight. Not that he can really be blamed for that. Things are probably hardest on him, the de-facto leader of this group of people. And his nightmares must be the worst out of all of them. “I thought I’d make a cookie in a mug or something. I used to do it with my uncle. Or--” Shuichi’s cheeks redden and he looks away, frowning. “I thought I did.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Rantaro sighs, looping his arms around his knees but not bothering to stand. Shuichi returns his gaze to Rantaro’s face, an almost inquisitive look in his eyes, and neither of them say it but it’s implicit that it’s Rantaro’s turn to explain himself now. Even if his reason is less lighthearted than Shuichi’s. “Nightmare. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Mm. I understand,” Shuichi says. He probably does. He opens another cabinet, pulling out flour, sugar, baking soda. As he sifts through the ingredients, he speaks again. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“No,” Rantaro shakes his head, too exhausted to care that he answered too quickly. When he looks up at Shuichi again, he is received with a nod, and then silence. The silent clattering of boxes on the counter. Shuichi moves around the island in the middle of the kitchen and stops by the fridge, pulling open the door and getting out eggs. Milk. He doesn’t move like someone who is tired. He must be used to being awake at this time of night (morning) and moving around. Rantaro feels sluggish, conversely, like he’s surrounded by a thick goo and trying to slip through it.

As Shuichi puts a second mug down on the counter, he speaks again. “Do you like dark chocolate, Amami-kun?”

“My tastes in chocolate are very refined,” Rantaro replies, sniffing, and when Shuichi grins back at him, his eyebrows flickering upwards, he laughs quietly and adds, “But yes, it’s my preference.”

“I’m glad. That means we can be friends,” Shuichi smiles softly, despite the meaning in his words, pulling a bag of dark chocolate chips from a drawer. “I had to end my friendship with Momota-kun the other day on the grounds that he enjoys Hershey’s bars. He helped me a lot in the simulation, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

It’s… more than likely that Shuichi is being sarcastic, but for some reason his deadpan makes Rantaro laugh incredulously. The sound comes out louder than he means for it to and he covers his mouth with a hand without thinking, though it’s hard not to smile when Shuichi fixes him with that kind of a look. “I’m not sure this kind of severity suits you, Saihara-kun.”

“Really?” Shuichi starts measuring out dry ingredients, humming as he uses a spoon to stir the mixture inside of one of the mugs. “I’d have thought that after ending Danganronpa, I’d be entitled to at least a little bit of severity. As a treat, y’know?” He puts his spoon down and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. It gets a streak of flour across his cheek, but Rantaro doesn’t comment on it. It’s oddly endearing. “Iruma-san doesn’t like it, though. She said that she preferred me when I was timid, the other day.”

“I haven’t heard you stutter in a while,” Rantaro admits. Shuichi’s tiny little purse of his lips is almost self-satisfied. “I’m sure Iruma-san was just saying that.”

“She’s like that,” Shuichi sighs, shaking his head. “Can you crack eggs one-handed, Amami-kun?”

It’s an interesting question-- mostly because Rantaro has memories of being able to do so, but he’s not sure… if they’re real. As the days go by it gets harder and harder to distinguish between fiction and reality. “Maybe. It’s been a while,” he decides upon replying, and when Shuichi shoots him an expectant look from the counter, he begrudgingly gets to his feet, slipping around the island and joining Shuichi in front of his little cooking station. He spilled some flower by the microwave and the bag of chocolate chips is open, as though someone (read: Shuichi) has been snacking on them.

The egg that Shuichi passes him is cool and wet in his palm. He shifts it into his right hand, the one that he remembers being better at doing this in, and holds it over the mug that Shuichi indicates towards. After a moment of brief hesitation, he cracks it.

“Hm,” Rantaro frowns down at the little piece of egg shell that he got into the mug. “I’m a little rusty.”

“I’m very impressed,” Shuichi assures, reaching into the mug with his pinkie in an attempt to get it out. “Ah…” he ends up pushing the shell fragment deeper into the yolk. “It’s… alright, this one will just be mine. I like my cookies crunchy, at any rate.”

“Saihara-kun!” Rantaro laughs, surprised. “I was the one who got the egg shell in there to begin with.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Shuichi hums. “But I don’t mind. Consider your impressive egg cracking abilities as payment for me risking salmonella. You’ll have to do the other one, though,” he indicates towards the other mug, and Rantaro pouts, which manages to coax a laugh out of him. Shuichi has such a nice, clear laugh-- he hadn’t really noticed as much before, perhaps because Shuichi was so… reserved, back in the simulation, but… for some reason, hearing the warmth in Shuichi’s voice makes the noise in his head fade away into virtually nothing, and for the first time since waking up it feels as though he’s actually standing right here, not at a podium and not in front of a disposable camera with the flash on.

Shuichi seems to notice him sobering, and perhaps he interprets it as something being wrong, because he opens his mouth to speak. Rantaro beats him to it, though. “I think you’re pretty… incredible, Saihara-kun.” When Shuichi raises his eyebrows, he elaborates. “I just… that you can smile and laugh so genuinely after everything you went through in there… you’ve grown a lot. And done a lot. I don’t know. I’m trying to move past it but it usually just feels like I’m exactly the person I was before.”

“Hm,” Shuichi gives him a measured look. “There are… plenty of things for me to be smiling about. You’re here, for example,” he reaches out and interlaces their fingers, rubbing off some flour on the back of Rantaro’s hand, but all Rantaro notices is how cool and pleasant his palm is, how small and yet comfortable it feels in his own. “And not rotting away in some morgue hidden inside the Ultimate Academy.”

“That’s the hope, isn’t it?” Rantaro smiles wryly.

“But you aren’t stagnating, Amami-kun.” Shuichi bumps his shoulder with his own. “Recovery is slow and awkward and difficult and I know that you feel like an outcast with all of us so… it’s not like you don’t have hinderances. But you’ll get better. You will.” He offers a smile that seems to brighten the room. “And we’ll be right here.  _ I’ll  _ be right here. So don’t invalidate your own progress with mine. It’ll stop mattering to you eventually.”

“I don’t think that… your progress is going to stop mattering to me,” Rantaro murmurs-- if only to detract from the way that his heart squeezes at Shuichi’s words. There’s a brief moment of silence, and then Shuichi’s cheeks redden and he averts his gaze, releasing Rantaro’s hand to cover his mouth.

“You can’t--  _ say  _ that, that isn’t fair,” Shuichi mumbles, and Rantaro finds himself laughing, especially when Shuichi turns back around and there’s a dusting of flour on his upper lip like a mustache. “Stop laughing, you took me off guard!” He protests, his face reddening further, and Rantaro clears his throat, trying to regain his composure, but it’s impossible to take Shuichi’s indignance seriously with the flour on his face.

“You, uh,” he gestures at his own upper lip, trying not to laugh any more. “You got some--”

“Ah!” Shuichi swipes at his face with his sleeve. “I keep forgetting about the flour… not a word about this to anybody, do you understand? Iruma-san says that I’m a top now, so I can definitely make you regret crossing me.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Rantaro grins, and Shuichi softens into a disbelieving smile, his eyebrows quirked again. “But I don’t doubt that for a second.”

“Normie,” Shuichi mutters, turning back to the mugs. He pulls out another egg and pushes it into Rantaro’s hand, clearing his throat. “You’re very sweet, but these microwave cookies aren’t going to be made if you’re going to stand there bullying me.”

“You’re the one who insists that I crack the eggs one-handed,” Rantaro points out, obligingly cracking the egg into the other mug. (This one comes out shell-free.)

“Mm, yes, but I like watching your hands.” Shuichi shrugs, and now they’re both blushing, so it’s hardly a win for either of them.

As Rantaro turns on the sink to wash his hands, he listens to Shuichi hum as he puts the mugs in the microwave. His focus is hardly on the stream of water going down the drain anymore, but as he uses his elbow to turn off the sink, the thought pops into his head. Maybe there are better ways to calm down after nightmares.

(Rantaro turns around and flicks water at Shuichi with his wet hands, partly because he feels compelled to but also because wants to hear Shuichi’s laugh again. It’s perhaps the loveliest thing he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t have to be in the dark to hear it.)

**Author's Note:**

> hrkkakldjf The Boys(tm)
> 
> i wrote the first part of this for amasai week day six but then scrapped it bc i said Fuck No to that but akldjf here i am later, editing, finishing, and posting it anyway
> 
> [places amasai on the ground] COME GET YALL JUICE
> 
> haha... what if...... they got to tease each other......... and be happy................. nkfjdk hahahah jkjkjk,,
> 
> unLE--


End file.
